Charming Sharra, page 6
“But can’t you…there must be some way…”
He cocked his head to one side and stroked his beard thoughtfully. “There are a few reversal spells that might work, but they’re pretty difficult and expensive all by themselves, on top of what you already owe me.”
“I shouldn’t owe you anything! I paid you fifty rounds of gold!”
“And that wasn’t enough. You wanted a youth spell. I cast a youth spell. We agreed on a price, and you said you’d pay it. Now, pay it, or wind up as an ornament somewhere. You’re a beautiful young woman; maybe you still have time to seduce some rich old fool. Even if you can’t get your husband back, you ought to be able to get someone.”
“I’m not a whore!”
“That’s good, because no one would pay that much for a whore. Listen, if it’s any comfort, the petrifaction spell will be reversible if I do it right, and if anyone ever pays me what you owe me, I’ll try to turn you back. In fact, I won’t even charge anything more for it, because I want to see whether it works. Do you have any family who might pay off the bill eventually?”
“Maybe,” Sharra said. Then reality caught up with her, for once. Her face fell. “No,” she admitted. “Twenty-five rounds of gold? None of them could ever pay that much.”
“Then I suggest you start looking for another source of funds. Now, if you don’t mind, I have other business to attend to.” He started to turn away.
Desperate, Sharra tried to grab for the knife on his belt, but found that her fingers could not grip it; they slid away as if the leather hilt was some impossible liquid. Then she felt a grip like iron close on her wrist.
“Now, that was silly,” Poldrian said, as he lifted her arm away from the weapon. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to touch a wizard’s dagger?” He released her, and she stared at the red marks his fingers had left. “I understand that you’re under a great deal of stress, facing an eternity as a lump of stone, but I really think you had better leave right now, and not come back without the rest of my fee.”
She stared at him for a moment, and then turned and fled.
A hundred feet down the street from his door she stopped and took a deep breath to calm herself. She stood there, eyes closed, trying to think of a way out of her predicament.
Dulzan wasn’t going to help her. It appeared her parents weren’t going to help her, either. Who did that leave?
There were her sisters, but she didn’t think either of them had much money, or that they would loan it to her if they did. Dalissa probably had some money, but was unlikely to let any of it go, and it surely wouldn’t be enough to really matter.
Friends – she realized with horror that she hardly had any friends. She had had neighbors in Brightside she spoke with regularly and sometimes accompanied to parties and concerts, but she had never been very close with any of them.
She had spent some time with Dulzan’s friends and customers – as little as possible, but some – but she knew that they were Dulzan’s friends and customers. They would side with him, not with her.
Or maybe they would help her to prevent Dulzan from being embarrassed. After all, she and Dulzan were technically still married, as it had not yet been anywhere near a year and a day since Dulzan left.
She had had her own friends once, back when she and Dulzan lived in Crafton – not very many, but a few, people like Desset. When she tried to think of one she could call on for help, though, she realized that she had hardly seen any of them in years, and could not even be sure where most of them lived anymore.
There were her social contacts at the palace and among the city’s elite, but she was not so foolish as to think any of them were true friends who would loan her rounds of gold. The women she had met and talked to at fancy parties weren’t so much friends as rivals, constantly trying to impress and outdo one another, and she could not think of any of them who might be generous enough to help her. Much of her standing with them had been based on the belief that she was rich, when in fact it had taken most of Dulzan’s earnings – well, most of the earnings she had known about, anyway – just to maintain appearances.
How had he managed to save up all that gold, anyway? And here she had thought he wasted what little money he kept from her on beer.
She might be able to borrow money here and there, from her sisters and friends, but she did not for a moment imagine that it would amount to even half the seventeen rounds of gold she needed.
Was there some magic she could use to raise the money?
She opened her eyes and looked along Wizard Street. The only magicians she had spoken to in years, beyond small talk at palace parties, were Poldrian and Mother Maffi. Maffi had been helpful with certain matters, but Sharra knew that was because Sharra had paid her, not because they were friends. If Maffi had a way to acquire large sums of gold on short notice, she would hardly have been selling health aids and contraceptive spells from a dingy little shop. Even though that shop was only a few blocks away, Sharra did not turn in that direction.
But, Sharra realized, she did have some magic to work with. She was, to all appearances, young and beautiful, but with the mind and experience of a middle-aged woman. Poldrian had suggested she seduce a rich man – maybe she actually could. That wasn’t what she had wanted to do with her restored youth, but it might work.
She had met plenty of wealthy men at the palace; was there one who might be susceptible to her charms? She frowned, thinking hard.
Most of them were already married, of course, and she was not aware that any of them were looking for a second wife. Some might consider a little fling; she knew that Orzik the Vintner had been seen in the company of whores, and Lord Varl, with his broad shoulders and winning smile, was said to have bedded several of the palace servants.
But as she had told Poldrian, she wasn’t a whore, nor was she a serving girl, and she doubted that any of those women had ever gotten any gold from Orzik or Lord Varl, nor enough silver to equal a golden bit.
What about single men, though? There were a few, after all, and many of them were definitely interested in women – or at least they certainly claimed to be. She started a mental list of names, and bit her lip – they were all so young!
But then, she realized, so was she, now. And a man’s youth and inexperience might make him more suggestible, more easily misled, for a woman of thirty-eight who looked to be eighteen.
But she could not very well go to any man she knew and admit she was the wife of Dulzan the Cabinetmaker, and then try to seduce him – not even when Dulzan had left her. She would need to assume a new identity.
That should not be difficult, though. She could claim to be her own niece, Sharra the Younger, just now trying to enter high society. That could work, she thought. But she would have to act quickly, to win a man over by the eighth of Harvest.
She would need the right sort of clothing. Most of her clothes were still in the house she had sold, but most of them weren’t really the sort of thing an eighteen-year-old woman would be wearing on her first visit to the overlord’s palace. Most particularly, they weren’t the sort of thing that would draw the attention, but not the suspicion, of a wealthy young man like Halzin of Nightside, or Sindel Galeth’s son.
And she would need more than one outfit. If she was going to play the role of a wealthy young woman who could be trusted with large sums of money, and not just a beggar, she would need to look the part for several days.
But her mother was a weaver specializing in expensive fabrics, and her sister Dalissa was an excellent seamstress. Even if Dalissa alone couldn’t manage to do enough in the limited time available, finding someone else who could sew would not be that difficult.
She turned and headed back toward Weaver Street.
Chapter Seven
Sharra smiled as the dance ended, and curtsied to her partner, but she knew the smile was a little strained. She hoped Sindel wouldn’t notice.
He seemed a nice enough boy, really, though she would have thought a man of twenty would be more mature, and more sure of himself. Apparently Galeth the Merchant had coddled his son. Given enough time, Sharra was fairly sure she could talk her way into his bed and his strongbox.
But she didn’t have enough time. It was the sixth of Harvest, and she needed that sixteen rounds in no more than two days, and the stress was telling on her.
Really, she knew she should be grateful that her friends and family – well, mostly Dulzan’s friends and her family, actually – had managed to raise even a portion of a single round of gold. She had wheedled, begged, and pleaded every day, going from friend to friend, and after she had finished that depressingly short list she had gone from acquaintance to acquaintance; she had put all her belongings up for sale, as well. She now had nine rounds and one bit in gold, and five rounds in silver, tucked away under the mattress in the back room of her parents’ shop.
Dulzan’s sister Banni had been the most generous, donating a full round of silver; that had surprised Sharra, since she knew Banni had never liked her. They had not even spoken since Sharra bought the house in Brightside, but a round of silver, nevertheless.
Not that it was anywhere near enough. Sharra knew she needed to raise far more.
And every evening she had gone to whatever social events she could, trying to lure a man into giving her the rest. Her mother had provided the finest fabrics, her sister Dallisa had grudgingly sewn her gowns, and she had certainly drawn plenty of male interest – and even some female interest, a possibility she had not anticipated. She had attended banquets and wine-tasting parties and now this dance, held by the whimsical Lord Vashar and his Tintallionese dancing master.
She had not, however, managed to entrap a single wealthy lover. She had discovered that after twenty years of marriage, she did not remember how romance really worked. Her skill at serious flirting, rather than the sort of empty playfulness expected of pretty women, was hopelessly rusty. Much of her small talk was meant for a different audience, and she had trouble feigning interest in the callow youths who should have been her natural prey.
For a few days she thought she might have been able to capture the affections of Balash of Grandgate, a widower in his forties, which she thought that would have been a perfect pairing, but she had apparently said something wrong, and now he was avoiding her. Sindel, young as he was, appeared to be her best remaining option. He seemed willing to believe that her similarity to the older woman he had met a month or two back was merely a family resemblance, but while he was plainly very interested in her body, he seemed to draw away at even the most casual mention of money.
She wondered whether she might let him take her to bed, and then try to rob the house while he slept. He and his parents probably did not leave the family fortune just lying around, though; their gold was most likely in a hidden strongbox somewhere, bolted to a wall or floor. Or it might even be held in trust by some loyal friend, safely out of sight but ready to be retrieved on demand. Ethshar of the Sands did have its share of professional burglars, after all.
This was all foreign to her, though. She had always acquired money by having someone give it to her, not by stealing it. She had thought she would be able to do that, and indeed she had been given a necklace and two silver bracelets by some of her new admirers, but those had not amounted to even half a round of gold when sold. She did not have time to raise the money in dribs and drabs of that sort.
“I have greatly enjoyed your company, Sharra,” Sindel said, as he straightened from his own bow. “I could almost think I felt some of the magic the ritual dancers use, in that last piece.”
“And I have enjoyed your company, as well,” she replied, trying unsuccessfully to blush. She had not felt any magic beyond the pleasure of her own youthful vigor, but did not want to discourage the man.
“Perhaps the magic was entirely in the company, rather than the dance,” Sindel said. “Would you care to accompany me for a walk, so that we might see if it lingers?”
“I would be delighted,” she said, trying to broaden her smile.
He led her to the door of the hall, where they both said a quick farewell to Lord Vashar and stepped out in the street.
“Which way shall we go?” Sindel asked.
“Perhaps toward your home?” Sharra suggested.
“Oh, no, I don’t think so,” Sindel replied. “It’s too early for that.”
She was unsure how he meant that, and decided not to risk saying the wrong thing. “Then I leave it to you, sir,” she said. “Where would you like to go?”
“Perhaps your home?’
Sharra hesitated as she tried to think of the best response. Then she said, “My home is in Ethshar of the Rocks, and I think that’s too far for a casual walk.”
“Ah, of course. But where are you staying in this Ethshar?”
“With my par…with my grandparents, on Weaver Street. Which I think is hardly a suitable place for a stroll at this hour.”
“Nonsense! I don’t believe I have ever seen Weaver Street; show me the way!”
Again, Sharra did not immediately know what to say. She did not want a rich man’s son to see her sad little mattress in her parents’ shop, but she did not want to anger him by being uncooperative, either. She needed to keep his interest. “If that’s really what you want,” she said, gesturing to the right.
She took a circuitous route, hoping that she could suggest a better destination, but the more she tried to suggest other places they might go, the more Sindel insisted on seeing her “grandparents’” home. At last she could delay no longer, and they arrived at the door beneath the sign reading KIRSHA THE WEAVER, FINE FABRICS. The shop window was dark.
“This is your grandparents’ home?” Sindel asked, looking up and down the street. It was largely deserted; customers generally wanted sunlight to see the colors of the cloth they were buying, and there were no taverns or other businesses on Weaver Street that would attract the residents after hours. Street lamps cast an orange glow across the storefronts, and several upstairs windows were lit, but the two of them were the only strollers in sight.
Sharrra said, “Yes.”
“And this Kirsha?”
“My grandmother,” she replied.
“Your grandmother is a weaver?” His arm, which had been around her waist, fell away.
“Yes, she is.” She bit off a defensive, “Is anything wrong with that?” She knew perfectly well that Sindel would not think weaving was a worthy occupation; for the past twenty years, she had not thought it was.
“And your grandfather?”
“A traveling merchant.” That, at least, was a calling Sindel would respect, since his father was one, albeit a hundred times more successful than her own father.
Sindel seemed about to say something more, but apparently thought better of it. “I must meet them, then,” he said, and before Sharra could react, he had knocked loudly on the door of the shop.
Sharra grabbed for his arm. “They might be asleep!” she said, though the hour was not really all that late.
“They aren’t waiting up for their granddaughter?”
“No! I’m a grown woman, and they trust me to look out for myself!”
He smiled at her. “And do you have magics, then, to protect you from an attacker?”
That seemed an oddly cruel and cynical question, but Sharra was spared the necessity of an answer when the shop door opened and a young man, roughly Sindel’s own age, looked out.
“Aunt Sharra?” he said. “Is that you?”
Sharra turned to look at him, startled. It took her a few seconds to recognize the youth.
During those few seconds, Sindel said, “Aunt Sharra?” He turned to her and asked, astonished, “You have a grown nephew?”
“My sister is much older than I am,” Sharra said, hoping Dallisa would forgive the lie. She had at last figured out who this was. “Lador? What are you doing here?”
“I came to see if I could help,” he said. “I heard you needed money.” He looked at Sindel. “Who is this?”
“Sindel Galeth’s son,” Sindel replied, with a deep bow. “And you are…?”
“Lador the Weaver,” Lador replied. “Aunt Sharra?”
“I…am glad to see you,” Sharra managed. “Sindel and I were out for a walk.”
“And now I have seen you safely home,” Sindel said, stepping away from her. “I will say good night, and be on my way. Alas, that I cannot help you with the money this fellow says you need!”
“Oh, but Lador has been misinformed…” she began, but then she stopped. It was too late now; she could not possibly expect Sindel to give her anything. He had undoubtedly already realized the truth, that Sharra’s interest had been entirely in his money, and not himself. She might still pursue him, and perhaps wind up with an agreeable bedmate, but there was no way he would provide the sixteen gold rounds that would prevent her petrifaction.
“Has he?” Sindel asked, taking another step away. “Tell me, is your appearance a glamour?”
“No,” Sharra said. “This is really me. I swear it by all the gods.”
“And will you swear that you aren’t interested in my father’s money?”
She sighed, realizing it was hopeless. “No, I can’t swear to that. But I meant you no ill, I promise; that I can honestly say. Good night, Sindel; I hope you can find yourself a more suitable woman.” She stepped up to the door and took her nephew by the arm. “Come on, Lador. Let the man go about his business.”
“Good night, Sharra,” Sindel said.
And then she and Lador were inside the shop, and she closed the door behind them.
The heavy curtains were drawn, so no light had shown on the street, but three oil lamps were burning on the shelf behind the counter, and a ledger was open on the counter itself. Sharra took this in, then turned to Lador and asked, “What’s going on here?”
“Oh, well, I was going over the books,” Lador said. “I’ve been talking to Grandmother and Grandfather about joining the business here, and I wanted to see how things stand.” He hesitated, then added, “I was also hoping to find some overlooked accounts that we might collect, to help you pay the wizard.”
